Goes to Show You Never Can Tell
by tinyfierce
Summary: Hawke and co. are happily situated in NYC, going about their lives together - except Hawke's relationship with a certain diplomat keeps her in the tabloids. His solution is simple. Isabela suggests a tiara and bodyshots in response. Modern-day oneshot.


**A/N: **_"C'est la vie," say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell._

The modern-day oneshot I've been sitting on for two days short of forever.

The whole gang's living in modern NYC, going about their business as I like to imagine they would. =) Hawke/Arishok, a little Beth/Cullen, and tiny smidges of other pairings in the presence of alcohol. Rated T for mentions of sexytimes.

By the by, the song mentioned at the club is what I was listening to on the radio when writing a good chunk of that scene: Kylie Minogue's "Get Outta My Way." Bubblegum dancepop at its finest. Gotta love it.

My beta readers are the most beautiful women on the planet. The end.

* * *

><p>"...and a caramel latte with whipped cream, and a double chocolate chip cookie muffin."<p>

Hawke fished around in her purse as the barista smiled brightly and scrawled shorthand on the cups. "Someone's indulging her sweet tooth today, huh?"

Smirking, Hawke thumbed toward the big plate glass storefront, in front of which was the sidewalk section of the coffee shop's cafe. "The corn muffin and black coffee are mine, actually," she said. "The rest is for the big guy."

A few minutes later, coffees and baked goods in hand, she elbowed the doors open and stepped out into the morning air. The coffee shop was located across from a pretty little section of park and close to a subway station, but far enough away to get low foot traffic. It was one of their regular breakfast spots, when they managed the time.

"Here you go," she said, placing the eco-friendly post-consumer dye-free biodegradable cup in its sleeve and sliding it in front of her companion. "And just so you know, I'm embarrassed to order it."

Arishok grumbled something at her complaint, shifting his grip on the papers in one hand to grab the steaming hot coffee with the other. "And yet you manage."

She could count the times she'd seen him _not_ in a suit, outside of his penthouse, on one hand. They were always impeccably tailored to his enormous frame, shirts crisp and bright against his dark skin. And designer. He had good taste, she'd give him that, one of his most common sayings being "never settle for substandard." And he never did.

His bodyguards, two equally imposing and frighteningly tall men in suits, flanked him everywhere. They were quite a sight, she mused, an Armani-clad trio sitting in this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, and her in jeans with a camera strapped to her shoulder.

_Wonder what the locals think_.

She handed each of the security twins a bear claw, which they accepted with short, polite nods. She always bought them pastries, even when Arishok insisted that it was unnecessary.

"The things I suffer for you," she sighed, sitting opposite him at the latticed metal table. "Speaking of which..." She tossed a tabloid in front of her. "Picked this up in the subway."

He frowned, sunlight glinting off of his Bulgari watch as he put his work aside and reached for the glossy garbage-mongering pages. Staring up at him from the cover was a candid snapshot of the two of them getting out of a private car in front of a restaurant grand opening in the West Village. In big, bold letters across it was written the headline: 'IN BED WITH A TERRORIST?'

Hawke watched his face over the surface of her black hazelnut coffee as he flipped through to the article in question. Their relationship was a tabloid goldmine, she knew, but there had been no end to it since they went to their first big event together. New York City had a new pair of media darlings, and it looked like it was them. She couldn't pass a newspaper vendor without seeing his face on it somewhere. Which might have been kind of sweet, except...

"They claim that you're an arms dealer," she said.

He snorted, amber-gold eyes scanning the pages. "I have done nothing."

"But you're intimidating and speak Arabic. That's enough to sell papers."

A low growl of distaste rumbled from his throat. "Americans are like sheep," he muttered. "They enjoy panic. Egypt is the least of their worries; they should focus on the issues within their own borders."

He made no effort to hide his blatant dislike of Americans, she mused with a snicker. And yet they wouldn't leave him alone. He was no arms dealer, that she knew; Arishok was a cultural diplomat assigned to the task of accompanying and overseeing the care and display of a collection of ancient Egyptian artifacts that had been cleared to travel as a gesture of goodwill. It didn't help that the way foreigners romanticized the ancient cultures in movies and television resulted in a huge, bright spotlight on the New York museum tour.

He held the magazine open to one particular photo spread, clearly displaying it for her inspection. Hawke leaned forward, squinting. Grainy pictures of her shopping from a week ago, entitled 'AND BABY MAKES THREE?'

She balked. "They think I'm pregnant now?"

"Are you?"

"_No_," she said firmly in response to his intense stare. "I just made a poor choice of shirt."

Arishok let it crumple closed, handing it to one of his attendants to toss into the nearest wastebin. "Your people are vermin."

"Hey," she said defensively, "they're not _my_ people! Paparazzi are a whole different world. I'm a photojournalist. Big difference." She paused. "Why? Did you think I was as annoying as them when we first met at the museum opening gala?"

"You were irritating, yes."

He never held back. She liked that about him.

"And now?"

A tiny hint of a smirk tugged at his lips as he sipped at his latte. "Less irritating."

"Still got it!" A smile beamed out from her face as she finished her muffin. "I might be home late today," she said absentmindedly. "Shooting an editorial."

He frowned. "You dislike shooting fashion."

Wiping the crumbs from her hands, she stood. "Personal favor to the model."

He grunted an assent, looking up as she adjusted her bag. "I will be late as well."

"Then we'll order out tonight." She pressed a kiss to his temple, a display of affection he had learned to tolerate in public. "Gotta go."

* * *

><p>"Okay now, Choir Boy. Show me your ass."<p>

_Click._

Sebastian sighed, but obeyed. "Really, Hawke?"

_Click. Click._

She grinned behind her camera. "This is an ad campaign launch for denim, darlin'. And there's a _ton_ of fancy embroidery right across the back pockets, thus the need for emphasis on your butt."

Merrill pulled a chair over to adjust one of the lights as it bounced off a screen. "I've always wondered why you call him that," her assistant called in her trilling Welsh accent. "Choir Boy, that is. Does he sing?"

_Click._

Merrill was a grad student at NYU in anthropology, but looked (and acted) more like an art department freshman. Her quirks were endearing, however, and Hawke had taken the skinny little ball of enthusiasm under her wing and hired her.

"Do you want to tell the story," she called to the model, "or should I?"

He shook his head, smiling.

_Click._

"Go on," he said. "You like to tell it."

"It was when we first met," Mairead began. "It was at an industry party when he was first starting to get big, and Candice Swanepoel – the Victoria's Secret angel? - came _right_ up to him and put the moves on him. And he... he says..." She stifled laughter. "He says that he has too much respect for her as an artist and a woman to do something like that!" A smirk warmed her face. "I thought her head was going to explode. But I thought it was great and chased him down."

"And glad I am you did," he said, angling his shoulders, "as I owe a good deal of my professional success to you."

_Click._

"Nah, you would've done just fine without me. I just like to ogle you half-naked."

He smirked. "And you are welcome to do so."

_Click_.

"So," Merrill asked, "do you not like girls?"

"No, indeed I do," he replied, "but I studied in a seminary for some time, and that changes your perspective on things."

"Hence," Hawke gestured, "Choir Boy." She lowered her camera and squinted. "Hey, Merrill."

"Yes, boss-lady?"

"Grab the spray bottle from my window garden. Let's see if we can get him shiny."

Thrilled by the prospect, Merrill practically skipped over to the window while Hawke buzzed in a visitor. Sebastian obligingly leaned over with his hands on his knees, bracing himself as the dark-haired waif misted him and giggled uncontrollably.

Sipping at her tea, Hawke offered a friendly smile to the man who walked in the door. "Hey, Anders. _You're_ the one they sent over for the interview piece?"

The blond novelist-briefly-turned-columnist grimaced, scratching his scruffy chin. "Apparently, they feel that a new line of art deco-inspired jeans is important enough to pull me from the election coverage."

She snickered. "This wouldn't be punishment for calling Mayor Dumar a pandering coward in your last column, would it?"

His eyes brightened a bit, and a lazy half-smirk wound its way across his lips. "What can I say?" he offered. "I like making important people angry."

"Which is why you're stuck doing a _fluff_ piece," she reminded him, poking him in the chest. "Come on. Merrill should be done hosing him down by now."

Anders frowned, but followed. "You're having her do _what_?"

In front of the lights, the grad student had splayed her fingers over her mouth in a desperate attempt to hide her grin, and the green plastic spray bottle from the dollar store had nearly been emptied.

"That's enough, hon," Hawke called, picking up her camera again. "I think he's wet enough. Save some for the tomatoes."

"I could go fill it back up again, if you'd only let me –" At her boss' raised eyebrow, Merrill lowered the bottle sadly and trudged away. "Okay."

Sebastian flipped his head up, sending rivulets of water down his bare chest and back. He ran one tanned hand through damp hair, turning impossibly blue-green eyes sideways to his photographer.

"So am I?" he asked, running a hand over his stomach. "Wet enough?"

Hawke heard Anders bite back a moan beside her. "Oh, good _lord_," he breathed.

"Yeah," she murmured with a smirk. "Tell me about it."

* * *

><p>She got home first, tossing her keys onto the counter of the luxury penthouse that the city had put Arishok up in. It was energy efficient, modern, and had a beautiful kitchen that she didn't know how to use. She'd moved her things in when the lease on her place was up, at his insistence, though she didn't have much in the way of material possessions. Her photos littered the walls, though, and scenes from her travels peered out from behind the glass. Volcano in Iceland. Soccer riots in England. A Laplander igloo village. Russia. Japan. Afghanistan.<p>

She'd been in the city too long, she realized. Eight months without going anywhere. She was getting restless. Again.

She'd only just plucked a few grapes from the bunch in the fruit bowl when she heard the door beep open, and she watched as Arishok hung his jacket and tie up before making his way to sink into the plush sofa.

The man did love his sofas.

"Welcome home," she greeted, leaning on the countertop.

"Tea," he replied flatly, undoing the top few buttons on his shirt.

Hawke filled the kettle and turned on the heat under it. It was part of his daily ritual, and the best way to help him unwind. He nearly always came home exhausted.

She picked her camera up from its resting place on the coffee table, intending to put it back in its case, but instead found herself pulled into straddling Arishok's lap. He buried his face against her neck, a warm sigh brushing against the skin of her throat.

"Recharging?"

"Yes."

She pulled back, snapping a picture before leaning in to kiss him. He'd learned to tolerate the ever-present camera, and the treasure trove of candids she had of intimate, everyday moments with this imposing man was her greatest pride.

His hands slid up under her loose sweater, tongue pressing into hers as she trailed her fingers up over his collar, earrings, up into his snow-white hair and pulled it loose from its elastic.

"Rough day, I take it," she said against him when he allowed her room to breathe.

"I wish to leave this country," he grumbled, tugging at the worn edges of the two-seasons-too-old garment his lover wore. "I grow increasingly restless in the face of two-faced bureaucrats."

"Where to after this?"

_Click._

"Europe. Madrid, Paris, then Berlin."

"You'll like that better?"

"Yes."

_Click._

"My contract with the paper is up at the end of the month." _Click._ "Maybe I could go with you."

"Mm." _Click. _"You've no other commitments?"

"Other than my studio, there's nothing holding me here. And I've been meaning to get out of the city again for a while now."

_Click._

"Your company would be a welcome addition."

"Really? Well, since you asked so nicely…"

_Click._

"Though travel would be less troublesome if you were on my visa."

_Click._

"What, as a necessary staff photographer?"

_Click._

"No."

Hawke froze. At her pause, Arishok plucked the camera from her hands and turned it on her, calmly snapping a shot of her face.

He smirked. "Your expression is entertaining."

"Arishok," she asked slowly, "are you suggesting we get _married_?"

"It is the simplest answer." He looked up into the kitchen as the kettle whistled loudly, gently sliding out from beneath her and walking over to the stove. "I am a diplomat and as such am granted privileges internationally."

She scrambled to follow him, camera in hand. "But we've been dating for what, six months?"

"And we have resided together for five, mathematically 85 percent of it."

"But– "

He glanced up from pouring the steaming water into the waiting teapot. "What doubts do you have?"

Hawke bit her lip and looked at him, really _looked _at him. Travel. Adventure. An incredibly stunning man who treated her with more respect than anyone else she'd ever dated, who she was hopelessly and undeniably crazy about. She couldn't come up with a damn thing that she was insecure about with him, other than he'd never once said the words 'I love you.'

But then again, she hadn't either. And neither of them were the type to say it very often.

At her inability to produce a single argument, Arishok clicked the teapot's lid into place. He turned to cross the room to the tableware cabinet.

"The city registration office opens at 8am. We will stop by and obtain a license before my morning meeting."

"Whoa, _wait_!"

He turned back to face her, two black teacups in hand.

"You can't just make these decisions by yourself," she said, exasperated.

"Then accept."

Hawke let out a short laugh in disbelief at his... confidence? Presumption? Whatever it was, she was never one to simply accept anything _demanded_ of her, no matter what it was. So she crossed her arms and stared him down.

"Get down on one knee and do it right."

He frowned. "But you already know what it is I offer."

"Knee or nothing."

He set the cups down next to the steeping tea, the _clink _of ceramic hitting the countertop the only sound in the apartment for a good long while as he locked his eyes on hers. She didn't waver, just waited.

And waited.

Finally, after one of the longest and tensest silences she'd ever had to endure from him, she watched him close the distance between them and sink to a knee on the Italian tile floor in the unmistakable proposal posture.

"Be my legal wife," he said flatly.

_Click._

"Is this just about the visa?"

_Click._

Another silence.

"No."

_Click._

"Okay. Yes, I accept."

"As you should have from the start."

_Click._

"But this was fun, too. You going to kiss me or not?"

"Then put down your camera, woman."

_Click._

"Never."

She had no choice, however, as he stood and pinned her against the refrigerator, his mouth on hers. And she didn't have the mental capacity to protest as one of his hands took the camera and placed it on the counter, the other reaching between them to unzip her jeans.

* * *

><p>Hawke stared up at the ceiling above their bed, naked body tucked under thick, warm microfiber blankets and a down comforter. Her now-fiance shifted next to her, moving closer to wrap one arm possessively around her waist.<p>

"Hey," she said, idly running her fingers along his forearm, "remember how we first met?"

He grumbled something that vaguely resembled 'yes' as he ran a hand up to one breast.

"After half a conversation at the exhibit grand opening," she continued, smiling drowsily, "you announced that we were going to dinner and ten minutes later, I was at a private table with you in a rooftop restaurant without any recollection of how I got there."

"Your difference from your peers was clear. I rewarded it with due attention." He frowned. "Though you seemed determined to resist me."

"I gave in eventually, didn't I?"

"You did. Quite vocally."

She laughed at the memory of showing up at his door three weeks after their first meeting, in the middle of the night and very agitated. She'd listed all of the reasons why it was a bad idea to get involved with him and vice versa, ending with the firm declaration that she'd made the conscious decision to be stupid anyway and would he just let her in and fuck her already.

He did.

She didn't realize until weeks later that there were cameras in every inch of public space in that building. The staff always gave her appreciative waves and "good luck!" whenever they saw her, and her local celebrity status had been born.

Now, a little over five months after that night, she'd just agreed to marry the pompous ass.

"I'm keeping my name," she said, changing the topic of conversation, "so that's less passport paperwork, but I still have a lot to do if I'm going with you."

His breath was hot against her shoulder. "I have already put it in motion. It will be ready within the week."

"What?" She blinked. "But that takes months, even with your connections."

"Yes."

"Meaning..." She craned her neck to look at him. "Meaning that you filed to take me with you months ago?"

"A month after we met."

She propped herself up on her elbows to stare down at him, and he cracked one eye open to answer her unspoken barrage of questions.

"I would not leave one such as you to be wasted in this place."

"But you – I – we weren't – "

"I needed no further confirmation. You simply did not realize."

Hawke began to sputter a flurry of questions and half-formed sentences; things like "you're – are you _insane?_" and "why would – " and the classic "_what?" _flooded the room like a river of incredulity. Unwilling to suffer it, Arishok pulled her down to silence her with a kiss, turning to pin her beneath him. She quieted as one of his hands sought to resume what they'd just finished, and moaned at the touch of probing fingers.

She gasped against him, and when he moved his mouth to her throat, she glared at the ceiling. "You are one of the few people in this world who can get me to stop talking."

He bit down lightly. "For which I am grateful."

"Yeah, me too."

* * *

><p>"Wasn't this originally a gay bar?"<p>

"Yeah, but too many straight people came, so we gave up."

Hawke snickered into her frozen whatsit as Varric gestured to the neon lights lining the walls of his oldest club, the Deep Roads.

"We kept the décor, though."

"I can see that." She was sporting a novelty 'BRIDE-TO-BE' rhinestone-and-tulle tiara, left behind by one of the recent bachelorette parties. Isabela had gleefully pulled it out from behind the bar as she was relieved of tending duty for the impromptu party.

Aveline sat on one of the cushions on the raised platform of the VIP lounge, drinking a non-alcoholic beer while her husband and fellow policeman kept a keen eye on the younger-looking patrons at the bar.

"Relax, officer," Varric chuckled at Donnic over the thudding bass. "My record is impeccable."

"_Too_ impeccable," Aveline said with one arched eyebrow, but made no motion to move. "Anyway, we're not here for that."

"Right!" Isabela sat on the back of the couch behind Hawke, knees on either side of the photographer's shoulders. "Congratulations for landing a rich one, Hawke!"

Merrill popped up beside them, hanging on the railing while leaving her feet still firmly on the dance floor. And whatever she was drinking was horridly fluorescent blue. And full of fruit.

"Are you _really_ marrying him?" she asked, popping a maraschino cherry into her mouth.

"Yep," Mairead replied.

"But he's so _scary."_

"Oh, kitten," Isabela laughed, ruffling the petite grad student's hair. "Our girl doesn't scare easily, remember? Besides, he's loaded." She craned her neck down for visual confirmation from Hawke. "Both in the bank account and cock department, right?"

"Yes," the-bride-to-be agreed, "and _yes._ Like you wouldn't _believe._"

Isabela groaned theatrically. "I demand proof."

"Nope!"

"But you have such a nice camera!" Merrill chimed in with a mouthful of orange slice, and Isabela gestured to her in agreement.

"At least invite me over so that I can 'accidentally' walk in on him changing or unzipping. Perfectly innocent, one-time-deal..."

Hawke leaned back to pinch the bartender's nose. "You're not getting _anywhere_ near the apartment. We keep nice things there. And if I remember correctly, your little stint as an art thief keeps you from the museums he goes to, too."

"I didn't hear that," Aveline muttered into her bottle.

"Oh, you didn't?" Merrill scooted closer to the redhead, yelling loudly to be heard over the music. "She said that Isabela used to be an art thief!"

Aveline sighed. "_Yes_. Thank you, Merrill."

Smiling brightly, Merrill spun away to charge back to the dance floor, and a figure clad in a sleek black suit sat down in the lounge, holding a glass of red wine.

"All set, Fenris?" Varric asked.

"Yes." The white-haired security consultant shifted against the purple leather beneath him. "Everything has been updated as requested."

"Good. Now relax for once and celebrate."

Fenris turned green eyes up to Hawke with something of an entertained smirk. The bright eyes and light hair were a similarity he shared with Arishok, having come from the same guardedly vague hand-waving desert region as her fiance. He'd been something of a resource for her during the relationship, as well as an occasional dinner guest. Arishok did seem to enjoy hearing his own tongue spoken from time to time after listening to the harsh American accent nonstop for weeks on end.

"I understand congratulations are in order," he said slowly, "though I cannot claim to be surprised."

"Yes," Hawke sighed. "You're a genius who saw this coming a mile away."

"I recall telling you as much."

"Warning me, you mean?"

He only let out a gruff, raspy chuckle as he sipped at his wine. _Smug bastard_, she thought as she slammed back whatever Isabela had put in front of her.

She coughed. "Where's Anders?"

"At the bar," Isabela snickered. "You know. Shopping for the pretty boys. Or rather, prowling."

"Of course."

Varric grinned, spreading his hands. "I might want to hire that kid just to hang around. The amount of drinks he gets bought could practically keep this place afloat on its own."

"I will have you know," came a voice from beside him, "that I was _not_ hitting on a soul." Anders walked up the steps, Sebastian close behind him. "I went to the bar for a far nobler purpose."

"And look who made it," the model said, stepping aside to reveal a shorter blond man with a tan and a very distinct and _very_ familiar Italian accent.

"I am here to mourn." He sighed as Hawke laughed. "This is _tragic_."

"Oh, Zevran." He pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks, and Hawke brushed her mouth against his lightly. "I thought my text sounded positive!"

He crossed his arms, smirking all the same. "Emoticons do not temper bad news, my dear_._" He reached over to the small metal bucket that Anders had brought back from the bar. "Alcohol, however..."

As he procured a handful of brightly-colored little glass bottles, Hawke groaned loudly and Isabela bounced gleefully behind her.

"_That's_ why you went to the bar?" Mairead eyed the clinking liquor vials warily. "Body shots?"

"We waited until you'd already knocked back a few," the writer said with a lazy grin, indicating the empty glasses that were being cleared by a busgirl. "Now be a good little bachelorette– " He lined a few up on a tall cocktail round. "–and get nice and plastered."

Hawke went to turn to Aveline to beg for her surrogate sister to save her, but the chief of police and her husband were at the door, checking in on a call. Fenris was simply refilling his glass; he and Varric enjoyed seeing her squirm. She was on her own.

And Zevran was already tugging Sebastian's shirt off.

"All right," she declared, standing and brushing off her clothes. "Let's get this over and done with."

The handsome Italian (who never really specified what _exactly_ it was he did for a living) clucked his tongue at her. "Such attitude! It is not every day that one has the good fortune of licking an underwear model."

As he was pushed to kneel atop the low table, Sebastian stifled a nervous laugh and ducked his head. "I have to admit, it's been quite some time since I've done this."

"Don't worry," Isabela said, shoving off the couch with the squeak of leather. "Expert hands are here to help!"

"As are we," Anders added brightly, handing the bartender a shot as she climbed up behind Choir Boy.

"Help," Hawke muttered, laughing. "Right, because that's what you're doing." She watched as Isabela coaxed Sebastian to lay back against her, providing a nice incline for the bright red liquor to trail down his bare chest as she poured it into the dip of his collarbone.

_Fuck it_, Hawke swore mentally as she wrapped her palms around his waist, catching the tiny river before it reached his navel. Her tongue, flat against his skin, chased the syrupy alcohol upward, feeling his muscles flutter as she went. He hissed in a sharp breath as she opened her mouth to cover the pool at his clavicle, sucking up the majority of whatever it was – cinnamon flavored? - and lapping up the remainder in one long, wide lick that ended at the base of his throat.

Or rather, it should have.

Instead, she felt him chuckle against her as her mouth wound its way up to his, the both of them more than a little tipsy. His tongue delved past her lips, and she snickered as she was gently tugged away and pulled up to a second, softer mouth waiting for her.

As the former art thief kissed her fiercely, Hawke broke into a bubbling giggle fit, leaning back clumsily.

"Isabela," she accused between hiccups, "what _the hell _did you put in my drink?"

"Nothing bad," Isabela replied innocently, "but I did put in a _lot_ of it."

_Of course, _Hawke sighed to herself as she fell back into the couch. Sebastian moved to stand, but Anders hurried to take the bride-to-be's place.

"Oh no you don't," he said, eagerly handing Isabela another shot. "I'm not passing this opportunity up."

Laughing, Mairead watched the look on Sebastian's face morph into a kind of stifled embarrassment, but bless him, he didn't move as the columnist happily drank neon green god-knows-what from his chest.

_Please don't make me kiss him,_ his face read.

She was so entertained by her friends' situation that she didn't see another person practically leap onto the VIP platform and shove a glowing phone into her face.

Blinking, she studied the case. Smelled like cherry cough syrup, and covered in Dora the Explorer and Elmo stickers, which she recognized as belonging to –

"A text?" Bethany yelled, waving her iPhone around. "You tell me you're getting married by _text?"_

Her sister was a lead pediatrician at Mount Sinai hospital, and Hawke was just used to calls going to voicemail, eventually turning to text entirely. Sure enough, the mint green scrub pants were still on, glowing faintly in the neon light of the club.

"At least you took it seriously," Hawke shrugged. "Carver just wrote back 'yea n monkeys r flying out my ass.'"

"I came running as soon as my shift ended," her sister said, exasperated. "Sis, you've only known him for _six months._"

"Yeah, but..." She half-smiled. "I think I knew I was in love with him after three weeks."

Bethany's face softened at that, and she sat down, pulling her messily-bound hair down to re-tie it. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

She smiled, letting her head fall against her older sister's. "Weird."

"I know, right?" After a moment, Hawke smirked. "Don't worry – I still made him get down on one knee."

A bright, relaxed laugh bubbled up from her sister. "That sounds much more like you."

"And this familial bonding is all well and good," Zevran called from his seat beside the doctor, "but who is this 'Cullen' fellow?"

At Beth's abrupt snap away, Hawke was suddenly equally curious. Zev held up her sister's phone, which displayed a photo of a slightly embarrassed-looking but very handsome man with stubble and a tattoo of a flaming sword on one forearm. It buzzed; she had a text message.

"Give it back!" Bethany said, reaching for it, but Hawke beat her to it, as usual.

"He has the same tattoo as Carver," Hawke said thoughtfully, ignoring her baby sister's protests. "Military?"

Sighing in defeat, Bethany grabbed a beer and twisted it open. "Same unit, even. He was in for a psych evaluation for PTSD after he was captured and held for a week while on tour. He mentioned Carver, and after he got cleared, we had lunch a few times and he was really very sweet and _maybe _I gave him my number and _just give it already_ – "

"Cute!" Isabela observed, now in possession of the phone. "And he wants to meet for drinks! Invite him over."

Bethany paled. "Bela, no!"

Grinning, Isabela headed off the platform toward the dance floor. "Come... to... the... gay... bar..." she narrated as she typed, "...bring...Carver..."

"Isabela!" Beth cried, chasing after her, rushing past Merrill, who flushed a pretty shade of half-drunken pink.

"Oh," she chirped excitedly, turning to follow, "is Carver coming?"

As the floating lounge cleared, its occupants heading for both drinking and dancing, Hawke found herself blissfully alone with her best friend.

Varric smiled and patted the seat next to him, and she slid closer.

"Gonna miss you, shutterbug," he said, a little sadly.

"You know I have to go on adventures or I go crazy." She leaned her head on his shoulder, nestling into the expensive fabric of his shirt. "Besides, we have the internet. You can keep me updated on all the stupid things our bizarre little family does when I'm out of town."

"There will be pictures," he reassured her, patting her head.

"I don't doubt it." She sighed, twirling the cherry-laden sword in the drink Isabela had shoved into her hand. "I'm going to miss you most of all, scarecrow."

He chuckled. "You can always click your heels and come home, Hawke."

"I know." Suddenly, a thought struck her, and she sat up. She could do it now, while she wasn't thinking too straight, while they were relatively alone, before she went gallivanting off around the world in search of adventure and excitement.

"Hey, Varric," she called, putting down her drink.

"Yeah, shutterbug?"

"C'mere, 'cause I'm only going to do this once."

She wrapped her hands in his shirt, tugging him in close and kissing him firmly, if a little awkwardly at first. To her surprise, he didn't pull away. One broad hand reached up to weave into her hair, and he stretched closer to taste her deeper. It was warm, gentle, sweet, full of affection...

...but that was it.

Hawke pulled back, smiling. "Nothing, huh?"

"Not a thing." He shrugged with a sort of half-grin. "I _did_ always wonder."

"Yeah. Me too." She hugged him tightly, albeit a little drunkenly. "I love you so much."

"Good _lord,_" he laughed as he patted her back, "you're drunk."

"Love you. _So. Much._"

"Yeah, yeah. Love you too, kid. Don't get all sappy on me just because you're getting married."

"Getting married!" She fist-pumped, adjusting her novelty tiara. "At some point in the near future!"

"That's the spirit."

Suddenly, as the music shifted to some booming bass remix of a pop tune, Merrill materialized on the platform, full of energy.

People _had_ to stop giving her Red Bull.

"Come dance!" she exclaimed, tugging at Hawke's sleeves. "The floor lights up and there are these spotlights that make pretty patterns and you should see Isabela and Anders and their hips and even Fenris is down there, and while he's not really dancing so much as standing there watching at least he's close to the floor and _pretty please._"

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

"And it's _Kylie Minogue,_" her assistant added to the plea.

"You heard the young scholar," Zevran said, sliding an arm around the bride-to-be's waist and hauling her up. He caught Merrill's chin with his free hand, pointing it directly at Hawke. "And who can say 'no' to this face, hm?"

Big, watery eyes stared at her, and one pouty lip quivered.

"Fine," Hawke said, allowing herself to be ushered down to the main floor. "But if they pull out the glitter cannon, I'm going to kill every single one of you. Arishok _hates_it when I track glitter into the apartment."

* * *

><p>Hawke and Arishok were married a week later, in the noisiest and most colorful courtroom either of them had ever seen.<p>

He was in custom charcoal grey Valentino, and she wore a birdcage veil and smart little vintage Givenchy sheath dress. And their "quiet, nondescript ceremony" involved their enormous cluster of friends cramming into the wood-paneled room and shushing each other in a vain attempt to rein themselves in.

The judge, a stately older woman by the name of Wynne Hauptman, stifled a laugh when they inevitably failed and instead burst into cheers before a word had even been spoken. Hands in her fiance's, Hawke glared.

It didn't help.

Somehow or other, the legally required exchange was eventually read aloud, rings were exchanged, both parties said "I do," and Hawke stood on her tiptoes in her tasteful T-strap heels to kiss her new husband.

Which was when Merrill decided to release live doves.

Indoors.


End file.
